Sunday, October 29, 2006

To Hull Royal Infirmary. Youngest son had done a Keith Richards on Saturday afternoon and fallen out of a tree. Only his broken arm didn't just require a pot, oh no, he needed surgery to save his arm from being permanently disfigured. The break in question has a name but, sadly, I've forgotten it, although it was the bone that plugs into the elbow joint and the surgery required a lot of heavy-handed pulling and pushing and the use of a wire to get the thing back where it should be, then the removal of the wire. So, after loitering about last night waiting for a doctor to come and have a word, it was back again today to see the little fella off into the theatre, then lots of hanging about to make sure he came out the other end in one piece. Which, I'm happy to report, he did. Unlike Keith Richards, however, Sam doesn't get on well with morphine and quickly rid his stomach of its very small contents (two bites of toast and a cup of blackcurrant juice) not long after his return to the ward. He's spending tonight in a hospital bed so the surgeons can make sure their work isn't on the verge of "popping out", as they put it. Just before the op panic set in as the consent forms had disappeared - not the calm build up an 11-year-old would really like. As a new set of forms was sent for the surgeon, who was a bit of a charmer, said: "We like to add a certain element of drama like this because these days we're competing with the likes of Casualty."